Serpent's Reach

by C. J. Cherryh

  They had made it through. Station let them dock. The procedure completed itself and the crew unsealed the hatches.

  “Come on,” he said, feeling his pocket for the authorisations. There was a freighter…the tickets advised so…it was the best place to go now, no lingering on station. They carried their own baggage off, jostling the Upcoast family in their haste.

  Police.

  And not police. Armoured men with a serpent for an emblem, levelling rifles at them.

  “Papers,” one said.

  Itavvy produced them. For a brief, agonising moment he thought that they would then be waved on; but the man kept them, checked those likewise of the Upcoast group.

  “Both for the Phoenix,” he said into his com-unit.

  “Faces check?” a voice came back.

  “No likeness.”

  Itavvy reached, to have the papers. The faceless man held them, and the others, motioned at them with the rifle. “Waiting room,” he said.

  “We’ll miss our boarding,” a youth from Upcoast protested.

  “Nothing’s leaving,” the armoured man said.

  Azi, Itavvy realised in indignation. No Kontrin, but an azi force was holding them. He opened his mouth to protest: the rifles gestured, and he closed it. Meris started to cry; his wife gathered her up, and he took the burden from her, went after the Upcoasters into the designated waiting area.

  DOCK 6, BERTH 9, he could see on the signs outside the clear doors as they were ushered through. Berth 11 was their ship, safety.

  From here, past azi guns, there was no reaching it. He looked at the Upcoasters, at his wife, hugged Meris to him. A guard deposited their baggage inside the door and unmasked to search through it, disarranging one and proceeding to the next, putting nothing back.

  vi

  “Nothing,” the azi reported, and Morn scowled, folded his arms.

  “No more flights,” he said, looking at the ISPAK president. “Nothing moves out, no more come up.”

  “Kont’ Morn,” the beta breathed, appalled.

  He cared little for that. He had no trust at all for ITAK, and believed in ISPAK’s loyalty only while guns were on them and in the command centre.

  And from Pol there was yet no word. Pol was down in Newhope; that much was certain; his ship pulsed out a steady flow of status information, but there were only azi aboard.

  The Meth-maren had weapons enough at her disposal if she had linked into ITAK. She had still the resources of the Family with which to buy beta loyalties. And to take those privileges needed Council.

  Except by one procedure.

  “She’s dead,” Morn said suddenly, bewildering the beta. “I’ll enter in the banks that the Meth-maren’s dead. And ISPAK will witness it. Then it’ll be true, by the law—do you agree, ser?”

  “Yes, Kont’ Morn,” the man said; as it had been yes, Kont’ Pol, and Kont’ Raen before that.

  “All Kontrin and a world’s corporations are sufficient witness.” He glared at the beta to see the reaction to this, and the beta simply looked frightened. He motioned to the console. “Get ITAK in link. Use your persuasion.”

  The man sat down and keyed a message through, the while Morn leaned above him, one hand on his chair, one on the panel’s rim; and often the man’s hands trembled over a letter, but he made no errors. ITAK protested; NO CHOICE, the ISPAK beta returned. It was untidy; it fed into intercomp, to be examined and made permanent record. Morn scowled and let it. The records were only as dangerous as Council chose to regard them, and Council—was as Council went. Risks had to be taken.

  ITAK complied, under threat, registering protest. Brave little betas, Morn thought, with respect for the Meth-maren’s hold on them. It amused him. He watched the ISPAK beta trembling with psych-set guilt and that amused him the more. “Move over,” he said, thrust the man out of the way, glared until the man moved far away, by the door. Then he set his own fingers to the keys, with both ITAK and ISPAK signatories, coded in his own number…and Pol’s: for that he had gained long ago, committed it to memory: he had taken that precaution, as he tolerated nothing near him he could not control—save Pol. All a world’s Kontrin and the corporations: the latter, K-codes could forge; but only on Istra did it come down to so small a body of the Family.

  Worldcomp accepted it; it leaped to intercomp. Morn smiled, which he did rarely.

  Officially dead, so far as Istra was concerned; universally dead in the eight to sixteen days it would take for the message to reach homeworld and fan out again in intercomp. She could not use her codes or her credit: they were wiped.

  He pushed back from the console, rose, turned to the azi who waited. “Get the shuttle ready,” he said. “My own.”

  One left. He turned to the ISPAK beta.

  And suddenly the comp screens began to flash with alarm.

  He was at the panel in an instant, keyed through a query.

  No answer returned to him. He sat down and plied the keys, obtained only idiocy. Panic flashed into him. With all the speed he could manage he K-coded intercomp out-of link, separating it from the deadness that was Istra.

  The cold reached his stomach. Worldbank was wiped. All records, all finance, null.

  The Meth-maren’s death notice.

  It was keyed to that, and he had done it.

  “Kill the power!” he shouted, rounding on the ISPAK beta. “Kill all the power on Istra. Dead, you understand me?”

  There was silence. Nothing of the sort had ever been done before, the threat never carried out, the withdrawal of station power from a world.

  “Yes, Kontrin,” the beta stammered hoarsely. “But how long, how long are we talking about?”

  “Until you hear from me to restore it. Shut it down.” He turned to the board, keyed a message to his ship, ordering more azi to the command centre. “I’m going down,” he said to the azi present, to Leo, who was chief of them. The azi looked troubled at that, no more. “There’s no more time to spend with this. You know procedures.”

  Leo nodded. Twenty years Leo had been in his service, the last five as senior. Efficiency and intelligence. There was no beta would get past him, no one who would get near controls. Azi lined the room, thirty of them, armed and armoured, impersonal as the majat, and that resemblance was no chance. Beta psych-set was terrified by it. There was no one of them about to make a move under those guns.

  He looked about him, saw the screens which monitored the collectors, saw the incredible sight of vanes turning, all at the same time, averting into shadow.

  “We must have power,” the ISPAK beta objected.

  “Without dispute,” he said. The beta looked abjectly grateful.

  Morn ignored him and, gathering two of the azi to accompany him, left the centre.

  There was a Kontrin ship onworld, Pol’s; and Pol remained silent, leaving only azi to report.

  It was the first law, in the Family, to trust no one.

  vii

  Figures rippled across the comp screen. Raen saw the sudden dissolution of information and sprang back from it with a curse.

  Dead. They had gotten to that, then, to pull her privileges.

  And all Kontrin onworld had to agree to it.

  Pol, she thought. You bastard!

  She swore volubly and kept working, fed in the Newhope call number. “Jim,” she said. “Jim. Any staff, punch five and answer.”

  There was no answer.

  JIM, she sent, BEWARE POL HALD.

  She suddenly found chaos in the machine, nonsense, and finally only house-functions.

  “Power’s down in the main banks,” she said, turning to look at one of the older azi, who attended her shadow wise, armed, wherever she went in the house. She cut the unit off and walked back into the doorway of the living room, where the Ny-Berdens and their family remained with the house-azi. “Worldcomp’s undone,” she said, and at their blankly incredulous stares: “Power’s going to go soon, I’d imagine. Very soon. You’ve some collectors here. Is that enoug
h to keep your house running?”

  They only stared.

  “I hope for your sakes that such is the case,” she said, looking about her at the smallish rooms, the hand-done touches, the rough and unstylish furnishings. She turned again and raised her voice to them. “You understand, don’t you? Istra’s been cut off. Power will be cut. Worldcomp’s been dissolved—wiped. No records, no communications, nothing exists any longer.”

  The ser and sera gathered their son and daughter-in-law and grandchild close about them and continued to stare at her. Your doing, their eyes said. She did not argue with them. It was so. Her azi sat still, waiting. The azi belonging to the estate sat outside, ranged in orderly rows in the shade of the azi-quarters, under the guns of her own. There had been need to feed them, to give them at least a little relief from the confinement. Silence prevailed everywhere about the house and grounds.

  “Is your local power,” Raen asked yet again, “enough for you?”

  “If nothing’s damaged,” ser Ny answered at last, and faintly.

  “Confound it, I’m not proposing to harm you. I’d not do that. We’ll leave you your cells and your farm machinery. I’m worried about your survival. You understand that?”

  They seemed perhaps a little reassured. The child whimpered. The young mother hugged and soothed her.

  “Thank you,” ser Ny said tautly.

  An azi came up beside her, offered a cup of juice, bowed. Blast, what triggered that impulse? she wondered, concerned for the azi’s stability, for she had not ordered it. She sipped it gratefully all the same. The air-conditioning might not last, not unless the farm collectors could carry it. More than likely it would have to be sacrificed for the farm’s more essential machinery, the pumps to irrigate, refrigeration for stored goods.

  Distantly there was the sound of an engine.

  “Sera!” an azi shouted from the porch. “The truck’s back!”

  Everyone started to his feet, save the Ny-Berdens and their family: the azi guarding them did not let the guns turn aside. The truck groaned and rumbled its way to the porch. Raen put on her sun visor and took her rifle in hand, walked out to meet it.

  It was a wretched sight, the covered vehicle laden with injured, with men bleeding through their bandages or, deep in shock, trying to protect unset bones. Warrior danced about anxiously, scenting life-fluids: “Go, out of the way,” Raen bade it. Merry climbed down, and the three he had taken to help him climbed out of the back, exhausted and staggering themselves from the heat. Raen ordered cold water for them, ordered the others to work while Merry and his companions slumped in the shade of the truck.

  Willing hands off-loaded the injured into the air-conditioned house, to the bedrooms, the carpeted floors, everywhere there was room. They gave them water, and what medicines they could find in the house. Some were likely dying. All were in great pain, quiet as azi were always quiet, so long as they retained any consciousness of what they were doing. Some moaned, beyond that awareness.

  Raen walked back into the living room, where her sunsuit lay over the back of a chair. She looked at the kitchen door, where Merry stood, shadow-eyed and bruised and bloody. “There’s no taking them farther,” she said hoarsely. “It’s too cruel. Some, maybe. Some.” She looked at Ny and Berden. “You tell me, seri. What would happen to those men here, in your care? I can terminate the worst or I can leave them—but not for you to do it. You tell me.”

  “We can manage for them,” Ny said. “Want to.” He pressed Berden’s hand. “Never killed anybody. Don’t want anybody killed in this house.”

  She believed that, by means having nothing to do with logic.

  “Are you,” Berden asked, “leaving us our own azi?”

  She had intended otherwise until that moment. She looked at the beta woman and nodded. “Keep them. Likely you’ll need their help yourselves, and probably they’re no use in a fight.”

  The youth stood up, provoking a nervous reaction of his wife and of the armed azi. “I’m coming with,” he said. “You’re going to the City; you’re going to fight. I’m coming with. There’s others too. From other farms.”

  She was bewildered by that, saw his parents and wife almost protest, and not; saw ser Ny nod his head in slow agreement.

  “I have the place to hold,” Ny said sorrowfully. “But Nes’d go if he wants. Take some of the guard-azi with him, ours. We can spare. Settle with those citymen, and ’bove-worlders.”

  “You don’t understand,” Raen protested. “You can’t help. It’s not ISPAK; it’s not ITAK either.”

  “What, then?” asked the younger Ny, his brow wrinkling. “What are you going to fight, Kontrin?”

  It was a good question, better than he might know. Raen looked about her at their refuge, the farm, that might survive the chaos to come…looked back at him and shrugged. “Hive-matter. Things that have wanted settling for a long time.”

  “There’s men would go,” the young beta insisted. “Farms like ours and big estates too, belly-full with the way ITAK’s run us. There’s men all over would go to settle this once for all, would go with you, Kontrin.”

  “No.”

  “Sera,” Merry objected. “This is sense he offers.”

  “This is the tapes,” she said, looked about at all their faces, azi and beta. “Tapes…you understand that? You owe me nothing. We taped it into your ancestors seven hundred years ago. All your loyalty, all your fear of us, your desire to obey. It’s ail psych-set. Your azi know where their ideas come from. I’m telling you about yours. You’re following a program. Stop, before it ruins you.”

  There was silence, stark silence, and the young man stood stricken and the young woman held her child close.

  “Be free,” Raen said. “You’ve your farm. Let the cities go. I doubt there’ll be more azi. These are the last. They’ll go at their forty-year. Have children. Never mind the quotas. Have children, and be done with azi and with us.”

  “It’s treason,” the older Ny said.

  “We created you; is that a reason to die with us? Outsiders have left the Reach, for a time long in your terms. The old woman who rules on Cerdin will fall soon, if not already; that they’ve come for me openly says something of that; and there’ll be chaos after. Save what you can. Depend on no one.”

  “You stay, then,” said Berden. “You stay with us, sera.”

  She looked at the beta in affront, and the gentleness in that woman’s face and voice minded her of old Lia; it hurt. “Tapes,” she said. “Come on, Merry. Load the truck.” She glanced again at the Ny-Berdens. “I’m sorry about taking from you; all I can give you in return is advice. You’ve the lifetime of these azi to prepare yourselves for years without them, for a time when there’ll only be your children to farm the land. And never—never meddle with the hives.”

  The azi gathered themselves, packed up food and water, headed for the waiting truck. Raen turned her back on the betas, pulled on the sunsuit, took up her rifle again, went out down the steps. Warrior hovered there, clicking with anxiety. Merry was tying on containers of extra fuel, a can and a half. “All we have?” she asked; Merry shrugged. “All, sera. I drained it.”

  Already the azi were boarding, all who could come and many who should not, insisting they were guard-azi and not farmers.

  For them she felt most grief, for men who could imagine nothing more than to come with her. Even some of the farm azi rose and started forward, as if they thought that they were supposed to come, but she ordered them back, and they did not.

  Then Merry climbed aboard, waiting on her. She saw two more waiting…long-faced, and the back of the truck was jammed; she motioned them into the cab, two more that they could manage, for in the back, men sat three deep, rifles leaned where they could; or stood, leaning on the frame. Heat went up from the ground and the truck in waves.

  She squeezed herself in with Merry and the two others, pulled the door shut: no air-conditioning…they needed the fuel. There was a last scurrying and scrabbling at
op the truck. Warrior was minded to ride for a space, boarded even as Merry put the vehicle in motion and it laboured out, swaying and groaning, toward the dirt road.

  “Left,” Raen said when they reached the branching, directing them toward the River, and abandoned depots and the City.

  She had the map, on her knee, and the hope that the vehicle would hold together long enough. She looked at Merry, past the two azi who shared the cab with them. Merry’s face was solid and stolid as ever, no sign of dread for what they faced.

  How could there be, she wondered, for the likes of them, who knew their own limits, that they were designed and bred for what they did, and did it well?

  They had not even the luxury of doubt.

  We are outmoded, they and I, she thought, closing her hands about the smooth stock of the rifle. Appropriate, that we go together.

  BOOK NINE

  i

  There was a presence at the door, beyond the sealed steel. Moth did not let it hasten her, carefully poured wine into the crystal with a steady left hand. The right hung useless. It throbbed, and the fingers were too swollen to bend. She did not look at it. The bandages sufficed; the robes covered it; and she deliberately forced herself to move about, ignoring it.

  Something hissed at the door. She caught a flicker from the consoles about the room, a sudden shriek of alarm after. She set the wine down quickly and keyed broadcast to the hall outside.

  “Stop it,” she snapped. “If you want these systems intact, don’t try it.”

  “She’s alive,” she heard in the background.

  “Eldest,” an old voice overrode it, a familiar voice. She tried through the haze of pain to place it. Thon. That was Nel Thon. “Eldest, only your friends are here. Open the doors. Please open the doors.”

  She said nothing to that.